His other hand slid up Jim's leg, feather soft touches and careful exploration. He gave one last stroke before starting to run his fingers along the skin, his thumb running a line up the underside, letting Jim feel not just a grasping fist but his hand: the brush of a knuckle, the soft skin at the sides of his fingers, the calloused pads. He took his time, the control returning to his limbs, the strength filtering back into his muscles, but the heat utterly failing to dissipate. Jim was here, in a bed with him, beautiful and wanting and his, and this too was as amazing, as novel, as everything else.